The First Repo Man's Journal: The Final Entries
by TheWeasleyBoys
Summary: Henry Chapman thought the Largo siblings could be taken down all too easily. What he never expected was that things don't always go according to plan... UPDATED 10/22/2013!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Repo! The Genetic Opera was never mine, and it never will be. I just write the fanfictions, y'all.

**Author's Note:** This takes place before Chapters 18 and 19 of Chrysalis, so bear that in mind before you read or re-read the chapters in my other Repo story. Thanks!

The First Repo Man's Journal: The Final Entries

_21 December, 2056_

Night falls over the snow-covered landscape of Crucifixus Island. A thousand neon lights make the darkness almost equal to daylight; a series of colorful beacon-topped buildings signaling their services to wandering souls sailing past their doors. I am fifty years a resident and forty-seven years a citizen of these shores, and I suppose it is more than evident in the way my accent has faded somewhat over the years. Britain has become just another island to me, a slightly larger land mass that served its purpose as a starting point to my life, nothing more. Only dark memories linger there, for I have long left its borders behind me. As they would say in the old science fiction novels, Crucifixus is forever my place.

A trail of snow zigzags its way across the cold ground, and with it, my memories drag me back and forth between the past and the present.

I am fifteen years old, weak, exhausted; the firstborn recipient of a hand transplant and bone marrow combination whose pain is regularly dulled by injections of Zydrate. In between my arrival to the island and my arranged custody into the hands of two strangers, I have the luck of making Rottissimo Largo's acquaintance. There marks the path that will take me through the next fifty years of my existence, and if I am so very fortunate, it may just last me fifty more if my good health remains where it is.

I am sixty-five years old, still in good health but not as quick or nimble as I once was. In between my retirement from GeneCo and the time of this walk through the snow, I have had the bad fortune of receiving regular visits from a strange friend known as Arthritis. I expect my housekeeper, Mrs. Kearney, will prescribe the usual treatments even though she is no licensed physician—a dose of ibuprofen or some exposure to hot water, perhaps. A long soak in that water might be welcome, especially with the weather as chilling as it is tonight.

I sit beside my younger brother during a forbidden trip to the cinema, preparing to watch the film's villain perform surgery on a fully conscious, fully terrified victim when the man in front of us starts to cough into a handkerchief. The plague he's carried along with him into this crowded space is about to change both of our lives forever.

I stand in front of a fully conscious, fully terrified victim of my own; shoving the sharp end of my boxcutter right into their thoracic cavity so that I may collect the heart they had _so_ much trouble paying for. They knew the cost would be high, yet they made no attempt to pay any of their debt off, choosing instead to sit around their apartment, chat with their friends over the phone, and rarely go to their part-time job when they had the chance. One flick of my blood-stained wrist, and the tool I've carried along with me into this dead-end alley ends their life forever.

I lie comfortably on a double bed belonging to a scarlet-haired whore, breathing quickly in anticipation over the way she plans to initiate me into the world of adults. 'Relax, baby, it'll be easy,' she purrs into my ear, stroking my hair with one hand while the other skillfully undoes the zipper of my denims.

I sit uncomfortably on a hard hospital bed, staring in disbelief at the newspaper article that tells me my Scarlett is among the mountains of corpses initiating the world into the great organ failure epidemic. 'Forget her, Chapman, she's just some slut,' the orderly growls into my face, jabbing a large syringe of Zydrate into my left arm while my right is roughly fastened into restraints.

I am watched over during my recovery by a fair-haired man and a black-haired woman masquerading as my parents. They've done a good job matching me up with these strangers, but they've got the key genetics wrong. In my weakened state, I dream about my real, black-haired father lifting me into his arms and flying me back to London all by magic alone, where my mother and brother wait with a treacle tart so large, it covers the entire kitchen table.

I have flown back to London, but it's not to go home and stay there. Instead, I watch in silence as I pass by my father's casket, no longer seeing him the way I remembered him. There is a shriveled, white-haired corpse lying there, and for a moment, I wonder if the undertaker has made a mistake. Only when a lifelong Englishman and Repossessor comments on my having gone Italian do I realise the truth—by keeping in Rotti's company for so long, I have the Italian language memorised in my mind; the Italian culture absorbed into my heart; and during this long, long time, I missed the fact that my father's life had been coming to an end. After the funeral, I try going into a coffee shop in the hopes of buying a slice of treacle tart, but alas, anything over 200 calories has been outlawed so that the surgery addicts _don't_ get as big as a table.

Life, like this small path of snow and this scar upon my wrist, has moved in a constant zigzag ever since that plague that struck London so very long ago. I come across people along the way, sometimes future friends; sometimes future lovers; sometimes surrogate family members. I slip into their little worlds, I become used to them being there, and I let myself get close to them, only to watch them drop like flies when the organ failure epidemic sweeps over the entire planet. As it was in the West End, so also does it eventually happen in Sanitarium Square, New York City, Washington, D.C., Bismarck, Los Angeles, Seattle, and so on and so forth, until once more, GeneCo stepped in and settled things down.

Two whole plagues, and not a single part of GeneCo ever faded away. Even with all this sickness, death, public unrest, government meltdowns, martial law, new resolutions passed, debt management, and constantly changing positions within the offices, somehow GeneCo always managed to keep on top of its daily operations, surviving and working in the midst of the darkest, highest levels of chaos. It was there to bring me to this island when I needed a new hand, and shortly after the first plague, no less. It was there to rescue me from certain death during the second plague, giving me a new liver in the nick of time and thus extending my life by twenty-six years.

Is it any wonder that I came to see that creation of steel, glass, and neon bulbs as the only true home I would ever have, invincibly withstanding the tests of time, age, and disease? Is it strange that it would play both the roles of mother and father before too long, giving me the medicines and operations I needed to stay healthy _and_ keeping that boxcutter in my hand so that I could pay for it all…? It was, is, and shall always have a strong influence in my life. It came for me when all others forgot my name, my face, my life story. Why, then, would I not try to give it something back in return?

And so, for twenty-seven years running, I repaid GeneCo with one repossessed organ at a time, slice by slice, kill by kill, a mountain of the dead at their doorstep that became a mountain of gold once those organs were given to people who could properly pay. I was the first of the Repo Men, the original, and I set the standard for all the individuals that came after me.

For these twenty-seven years of service plus the six more I spent reporting the results of my transplant, this company continues to keep an eye on me by recommending good workers to my household staff. Mrs. Kearney tells me there might be a Miss Hines or a Miss Hensley arriving soon to help pick up a little of the domestic chores soon. I believe a good typist might be welcome, at least, if only to take care of the bills and other documents I am starting to have trouble with. Of course, typist or domestic, I know that some aspect of GeneCo will be more than happy to cover all the expenses for me.

This, then, is the number one reason I plan to protect GeneCo from those who would abuse its services and keep its life-saving products around merely for their personal pleasure. There are three faces in my mind I know far too well, for I have seen the way they act in private and the infamous behavior they use to achieve their ends. It took their father thirty-seven years to tell them all what he truly thought of their decadence and lawlessness. How long will it be before the entire island sees what he once saw? Shall I show them all and prove to them the true faces of their 'leaders' this instant, or should I take the slow path instead and take each one out behind the scenes…?

The fast way would be much too easy, unfortunately. I would be ignoring my own advice to the hot-headed one, and giving them the way with the least amount of pain. No, no, in this case, pain is exactly what all three of them need. Why not start with the ones closest to them first, and so work my way up from there?

It is now my understanding that, thanks to some careful observation on my part, a certain Madam Vecchio has shown interest in caring for the daughter's illegitimate spawn. Under the guise of coming in to prepare the elder son's final documents for work, I witnessed her putting together a small knitted blanket in the corner.

Why so much regard for the product of immoral behavior, I ask myself?

So far, a few individuals I recently spoke to claimed no memory of ever seeing a Roger Graves at the last Genetic Opera. If they did not see him, then how can that 'Sweet' woman name him as the brat's father? Could there be some other sort of fornication going on behind the scenes that only a few are aware of?

She's with her elder brothers in public often, I'm sure, if not also in the company of Rotti's former bodyguards. All three have been known to bicker and curse at one another whenever they get the chance. I saw it before in the past, and no doubt I may see more in the future. Why, then, would she be so willing to continue to allow them to follow her, if not to suggest some other reason than family unity? Was there a tiny clue in the way the second brother suddenly couldn't resist poking and prodding her face? Did he want one of her castoff faces merely to replace one of his own, or could this have symbolized something else completely unknown to the rest of the world?

On the other hand…whereas the second prefers scantily-clad GENterns, in which direction does the firstborn son lean? All these nights with nothing but sharp objects to share his time, and I'm supposed to believe he 'just hasn't got any fucking time' for women? Could it be that, instead of the half-dozen girlfriends of the second son throwing themselves at him for extra attention, he needed a different sort of holster for a knife of another kind…?

A little blood test might be enough to prove my theories, but in order to do that, I'd have to let the little abomination get its first breath of polluted air. After that, any attempts to punish all three for their vile acts committed separately _and_ with one another would come to nothing. Either one, two, or all three would get attached to the brat, and there's an end.

Then again, ignoring the problem; allowing them to flaunt their immoral behavior; and parading the product of that immorality before the news cameras simply would not do either. Brothers would force themselves upon sisters, mothers would marry their own sons, and the world would have its worst cases of inbreeding since the time of Oedipus Rex…and all because they 'wanted to be _just_ like the Largo family'.

Is it a problem, then, that this impending birth makes me sick to my stomach?

Even though no woman hidden behind a white veil ever came to meet me at the altar, there are still some things I hold to be true about relationships. I've seen quite a few couples come together in my lifetime, and even though half of those unions fell apart later on, one thing about them remains clear to me—none of the wives were conceived by the same man that sired their husbands, and neither did they live in the same womb that bore them. _Why_, then, should I smile, applaud, and approve of this abomination growing before my eyes?

The way ahead, then, is this. Madam Vecchio has within her possession a pair of designer kidneys, standard size, that narrowly saved her life during the Plague while her husband and three sons weren't so lucky. For twenty-six years, she's kept herself alive through direct employment by the Largo family, which in turn has guaranteed approximately three hundred and twelve regular monthly payments on the twelfth of each month. And although the youngest Largo child and only daughter wasn't born to her, she came to look after her from time to time from her first year of life through the present. No doubt her only ill-begotten spawn has made Madam Vecchio so _very_ excited, since it means she'll be able to relive her days as a mother with a second newborn to watch over and bring up.

It probably might also distract her from more important matters, such as, perhaps, a check disappearing in the mail, or a bank card ending up in the wrong hands. And, dare I say it, three instances of these blunders will be enough to force a default to Madam Vecchio's name. I will, therefore, require a few visitors to the Largo house to assure that these checks go missing; or better yet, that every form of payment this nursemaid-to-be owns gets permanently stolen and destroyed. An unexpected break-in could take care of that need right away, especially with the correct amount of planning and the most suitable person available to tell me the location of Madam Vecchio's purse, wallet, and checkbook.

The ones to choose for this task, however, are not so easily found. For this, I shall need a total of four individuals that possess good backgrounds in the public eye and criminal records in the private databases of GeneCo. They will also have to have interesting personalities and a touch or two in common with the eldest Largo child. What better way to guide him into letting them into the mansion than to befriend him first? I can see that he requires better company lately than the rest of his family, as _sweet_ or as _perfect_ as they believes themselves to be. In order to set this ideal trap, I will need the best bait possible to carry it out.

But who to enlist, I ask myself? Who among my students would be willing enough to do this, and how could I assure that their behavior is never traced back to me…?

As if to answer myself, I instinctively make a left on Main Street and cross over into the city limits of the graveyard, population two hundred thousand and counting. The first epidemic victims are nothing but ashes at the ground level of this dead man's paradise, while the newly repossessed are packed like sardines into the cold stone cans otherwise known as crypts. This island has pushed the boundaries of this once-tiny cemetery until it stretched up right against the houses, skyscrapers, and other aspects of the local neighborhoods. I expect they'll take another bulldozer to the place before too much longer, and then case it up in yet another layer of concrete. I just hope they don't disturb the largest of these crypts out of their need to make room for the next sorry fools to die. It's the place where my friend has found peace at last, eternally free from the sting of cancer and all the problems it caused him.

_Here lies Rottissimo Giovanni Largo, B. 1993, D. 2056. 'Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.' _

He would know exactly what to do about this whole sordid fiasco, and he would have no guilt about the consequences. Whichever of the two brothers did the deed would be castrated by Rotti's own medical team, and then perhaps exiled to the mainland if not to the other side of the planet…as long as the operation didn't kill them first. There would also be no inbred offspring to deal with, because he would have demanded an abortion procedure at once, and if worse came to worse, he might have even taken care of it himself with the good old-fashioned coat hanger. Yes, yes, Rotti would have known exactly what to do about this complex situation—he would have eliminated it head-on. This is the way I must tackle this endeavor, and this is the way I must follow to assure that the old order never changes beyond my recognition.

Would he, therefore, start looking for people who share the same violent tendencies and degenerative personalities as his firstborn so that _he_ would be the last person to ever suspect their true intentions?

As my mind wanders, I notice that there is a padlocked gate here that keeps my friend's body safe from the grave robbers and other forms of human vermin that would seek to dishonor his final resting place as well as his memory. I can't help but smile to myself as I understand the connection—even in death, he remains a man apart, far above the rabble of the general populace to ever be corrupted by them. Upon this gate, many more sophisticated well-wishers have hung photographs they had the fortune of getting taken with Rotti, sympathy cards worthy of that Crown symbol of old, farewells, flowers, and, in a rare display of superstition, portraits of family members not yet cursed with repossession in the hopes that Rotti's spirit might help them to avoid it. It is there that I see a particular photograph taken shortly before my friend's passing, in which the two of us sit side by side while Repo Men of the past and present gather around us like a private army. My pulse suddenly quickens as my mind snaps into activity, pulling two faces out from the crowd and, subsequently, each of their names.

First comes Victor Van Zandt, a lucky survivor of the Second Plague and the recipient of a fully-functional set of lungs. He was the first of the next wave of Repo Men during the Great Epidemic, and because the hiring age was lowered to bring in more living souls eager for a job, he'll have served about two years longer than myself when the time of his retirement arrives. Some of his coworkers believe he's out to end his career on a high note beforehand, for he's all too willing to pick up the extra cases and take care of them when all the others have finished their assignment lists. What better way to end a long, glorious career than through protecting the very company that hired him…?

Second comes Anna Yates, the only female Repossessor since the year 2048, established so that GeneCo could finally answer all gender inequality issues voiced by the public. She's the same age as that whore of Crucifixus who dared to claim GeneCo for herself, although she needed only one lung transplant procedure to save herself from the epidemic, and thankfully hasn't put herself repeatedly under the knife to turn herself into something she will never be. I hear that she is muttering to various sources that will remain anonymous on how she feels she doesn't get as many assignments as her male cohorts. Perhaps I should step in and, as some consolation and extra attention, convince her to undertake this operation for a special pay bonus? She will know that I don't plan the same reward for Victor, and so that might stroke her ego positively enough to make her give in.

Yes, it all could work as effectively as one of Rotti's endeavours, as long as I direct both of these individuals carefully as they make their way inside the mansion. They will be the ones to infiltrate that place and gain Luigi's trust; then passing on key information about the mansion to two more individuals standing on the outside. I feel my fingers start to itch as my mind continues to plan, for I know that no one else but Tom 'Dog' Walker and Daniel Dawson would be ideal candidates for the actual break-in. Like Victor and Anna, they have no withstanding criminal record; and like Luigi, they have a taste for the fight. All it would take, therefore, would be for them to act as though they are on their best behaviour, and once inside, take all forms of Madam Vecchio's currency into their possession while making it look like a burglar got in from the outside. That would keep their true role in this matter secret, for the GeneCops and any other officer would be searching for common criminals instead of a handful of the best killers I've ever taught. And with all four of these Repossessors remaining silent about the parts they play in this little opera, the investigations will most likely end as quickly as they started, for there will be no valid results to implicate anyone. I suppose I have Miss 'Sweet' Largo to thank for that…our private disasters are or will be credited with people that never existed. All the better to never find out the truth, right, little Carmela?

I look upon the doors of Rotti's tomb one last time, and through the gate, I see the flicker of his holo-image smiling back at me as he did frequently during his life. His spirit remembers the way these vultures spoke of him as though he were already dead the moment he received his dark diagnosis. His old age became the scorn and humor of the young, for they never understood the pain of the treatments or the stresses involved of assuring that GeneCo continued long after his death. How quickly the tables will turn upon all three of them, for their youth and naïveté will become my scorn and humor as I give them the punishments he never could. I killed delinquent customers for my friend, I devoted almost half my life to his business, and now, I will save that business for his sake. Never again will they dare to laugh at an old man, for this old man standing at the gates will be their undoing.

The zigzagging wind blows across the snowy streets again, and I slowly follow its path back to my home in the West End. It's time for that long soak in the hot water that I promised myself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I have moved this story from the Repo forums to , where I can safely just add all new chapters up behind the ones that already exist. My thanks to everyone who subscribed to my page in between now and one week ago.

=Weasley=

_31 December, 2056: Part One_

"Who's going to be _your_ heir, Mr. Chapman?"

My long-trusted driver, Robertson, has an uncanny ability to voice any and all questions out loud that I would not dare to ask myself under normal circumstances. Tonight appears to be one of those special instances, for he shows no hesitation in asking me this as we drive to the New Year's Charity Ball at the Largo household. Unfortunately, unlike all those times he has spoken up before, his question of this particular night is one I had never thought about my entire life…at least until a few seconds ago, of course. His words set my mind on fire, and with that fire, a train of slow, steady thought occurs as I carefully think my answer over before replying out loud.

I might have once had a mind to marry as my old friend had married, and possibly also try for at least one child of my own, if not two. The both of them might have been raised as I saw fit, _oh_, and with a bit of advice here and there from my wife, of course. Once they reached a certain age and I deemed them old enough to know my work habits, however, I would not have hesitated to explain to them just what I did for a living, as well as my reasons why. Nothing ever gave me so much physical and mental pleasure as punishing a delinquent customer, and for that, I would hope for one of my own children to follow in my footsteps someday.

Yes. I could have had sons of my own, and if not, my daughters could have broken GeneCo's glass ceiling, and so removed the need to bring Anna Yates into the fold at all. As I had been the first Repo Man, so also could they have been the first and second Repo Women. Fate and life had long ago decided differently for me, though. Instead of holding sons in my arms as my father did, or as my mother was followed around by her twin stepdaughters, no children ever followed me. The organ failure plague saw to that long before Robertson ever opened his mouth, let alone before Robertson was even born. With seven days and seven nights of pure, unbridled death and madness to follow it, all my hopes of settling down were wiped out forever.

Perhaps those nights were meant to prove to me how I was not the sort fit for marriage. I saw Rotti wait at three altars and utter three sets of vows, only to have each seemingly permanent relationship self-destruct after each had produced a child. Furthermore, each of those three children turned out just to be as failing as the marriages that created them. Was that not as good a sign as any that my own marriage might have also destroyed itself in such a manner, never mind my own legal and legitimate issue? Thank God I never had to see for myself. That might have been so great a shame as to reduce my fame and good standing amongst the people of Crucifixus if things had gone some other way then how they did.

Then again…it also raises the question of just who I intend to use as substitutes for these non-existent children, when one or more of them shall inherit, and what out of my many earthly possessions I plan to leave to them upon my death. It might even suggest to me that, when I finally do leave this world as so many others have left it before me, it would do both myself and GeneCo great honor to name a successor of mine to the Repossessors' ranks. By that time, as I fervently hope, someone deserving of the title will become the head of GeneCo itself and so not bother to counter my choice in any way. Until then, I must ask myself this important question—whom do I choose; how must I go about choosing them; and how do I make sure no one gets in the way of their inheritances after I have decided who receives them and who does not?

I will make my choice from my assortment of students over the years…that much is certain. Given my choice of livelihood and legacy, I doubt anyone would be surprised that, after traveling this path for so long, I would willingly also do it long after I stopped breathing. Right away, my mind and my memory change back over to the plan I've concocted for and by myself, and so I can safely scratch two names from the list so that no suspicion over their future actions ever comes back to me:

"It will _not_ be Victor Van Zandt or Anna Yates, Robertson. I already know that to be a fact."

"To be sure, to be sure," he answers me, not bothering to pry further and ask me why I've excluded that particular pair. Thank goodness for that.

"Might it be that Dog, or that Mr. Dawson then, sir?"

Another pair that could possibly betray me with their actions, or else their would-be history of inheriting what I leave behind.

"Certainly not, Robertson. Those two are much too wild for my taste…and yours, I'd imagine. The last thing either of us would need is one of them living in my old home, using my blades, and enjoying their names put into the same sentences as mine for the rest of their lives. Besides, they want to make their own ways in the world, do they not? What better way to do that than _not_ living eternally in my shadow?"

"Indeed, sir. Best to leave them as independent as possible, eh?"

I should say so, lest all four of my old students take responsibility for so much more than my possessions and my legacy. One can never be too careful around human beasts like their kind, I should say.

"Quite right. How much longer until we arrive?"

"Approximately five minutes, sir."

"Excellent. The sooner I can have some espresso into me, the better."

Robertson remains quiet for a moment, but only just, for he manages to toss one more question about me before I exit his vehicle:

"Who among your Repossessors _would_ be the best choice, Sir, if not them?"

I merely shrug in response, shift my weight, and answer him the best way I know how.

"I will be perfectly honest with you, Robertson…I haven't decided yet."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** **I cite the villains Alex DeLarge and Hans Landa as my inspiration for Henry Chapman…and would also like to add that, if I hadn't met the second so recently and felt chills go up and down my spine, I might never have finished this chapter. Thank you, Mr. Walken, wherever you are…**

_1 January, 2057: Part Two_

"Everything's as if we never said goodbye."

Of all the memorable lines of every memorable show in the world, my mind oddly decides to choose this one to apply to this evening. There's a slight note of humor in here somewhere, because I certainly know I'm no washed-up female silent film star looking for a second chance at her career. I also know I'm no teenaged homosexual _so_ overjoyed at returning to my old high school that the tears fall freely from my eyes. I seemed to have outgrown all those easy emotions a long time ago, and instead, I learned how to keep my true feelings hidden behind a blank mask.

At the same time, no matter how hard I try to erase it from my thoughts; I can't help but feel that this line has a drop of truth hidden inside its letters. Something about this night leads me so easily to that front garden of the Largo mansion, through the double doors of the entrance hall, and on the straight path through that hall to the courtyard in the back. I pass countless clusters of strangers along the way, and although I undoubtedly know so few of them, it is also undisputable that all of them somehow know me.

Those who have reached their silver years on this lovely island might have seen me in the news reports of old; a black-haired, freckle-faced lad with his hand wrapped in massive bandages after the transplant that made him complete again. We were the ones who settled this Crucifixus in the first place, and probably also could we be considered the pioneers of GeneCo itself. It is _perfect_, then, that we still be alive to keep watch over it, and if need be, assist at its possible rebirth if all my plans are carried out to the letter.

Those who were born over subsequent decades on these shores might have come to view me as a sort of father substitute or grandparental figure, some small figure of authority that could direct them when they wanted it and step in when they absolutely needed it. I was the one who helped create the history and dark legends of the Repo Men, and so also did I help to instruct several more Repossessors that arrived at GeneCo long after my own admittance. I sometimes wonder if I might need to include them in my plans as a way of helping them happen, never mind fulfilling some untold need to receive something in return for the countless years I've given to this company. I will receive this one thing, I believe, if I figure out just how to take out these poor excuses for my best friend's children and then act accordingly to my observations.

Those who have only begun to live here, or who have yet to be born, undoubtedly have no idea of who I am, what I stand for, or what I did for a living…at least not yet. I am just an anonymous face in their minds or a nameless photo in their books, and I'm just not as interesting as a giggling puppet or a singing animated princess. Ah, _well_. Let them stay bundled up in their little cocoons, safe and sound from the outside world until one of their relatives, friends, or neighbors is suddenly not able to pay for their designer organs any further. They will come to know me and all my kindred spirits sooner or later, and thus will they learn never to cross GeneCo or deny this company its due. They will also learn never to flaunt their indiscretions in front of the cameras when the proper hour arrives, and thus will they come to know the price of keeping perversions 'within the family'.

And speaking of family…I am more than careful to let what is left of my late friend's household have their moment in the spotlight, and then proceed to the ballroom where the true festivities will take place indoors. Thank God neither of those three insisted it happen out in the freezing cold, where not even organ transplants would save us all from certain hypothermia and slow, agonizing death. No, at least they all have enough sense to allow us to come indoors, where we will undoubtedly be safe from any sting of frostbite or touch of rheumatics.

And so, with the rest of the guests around me, I pass freely from the darkness to the light, enjoying the glow of the ballroom's various lamps and the excited chatter of the crowd. A pity this party was not held in the safety of the Opera, or else I might have felt daring enough to add a second act to the bloodbath Rotti started in August and had no second thoughts. Never mind, that, though…I believe I have finally located the whereabouts of my various students. It is good that they all decided to stay at the same table tonight, or else I might have taken hours to speak to each one individually behind the scenes. No matter, though…we can all enjoy our meal in peace, and keep to ourselves as usual.

I silently offer more thanks to God that neither the Largo failures nor the Sweet disaster were in charge of planning this dinner. We might have all had to suffer the embarrassment of common pizza delivery if that were to have happened. Instead, the family Chef has been allowed to work his magic for the guests: grilled Antipasto with a Mezzo Soprano sauce, a sampler board of Italian bread and various native cheeses, veal Saltimbocca, polenta baked with cheese, a Tuscan orange and fennel salad, and finally, the standard Tiramisu for dessert. The various donors pass a special box reserved for their yearly contributions to charity, and I find myself silently praying that no Largo gets their filthy hands on that box to feed their own greedy desires later. The last thing this island needs is finding out that their idols used a dying child's life-saving organ money for yet _another_ surgery or worse, paying off a street full of witnesses that saw their rage take another human life for no legal or moral reason.

On the other hand…what if I just left this all to chance, and let the Sweet woman have her fun only to register my surprise at her death upon the operating table? What if the oldest of these failures _and_ my pretend protégé miraculously slaughtered the other two in the throes of his anger? What if that no-account in the middle gets caught taking one last face from one last female, his actions suddenly videotaped for all of his admirers to see, and then slits his own throat out of pure shame? There might be a tiny chance that my thoughts and prayers get answered with other hands besides my own. I might enjoy the benefits of mere coincidence, write their deaths off as the intervention of Fate, and take up the reins they leave behind with no blood on my clothing. On the other hand…all three of them appear to be much too healthy and social tonight, and so my mind switches back instantly to the original plan. _My_ family and I will need three days at the maximum to figure a way in and an easy path out, but it never hurts to answer a few questions posed by my own mind, and hopefully without any outsiders growing suspicious of our conversations.

How would the five of us, we four Repo Men and one Woman, enter and exit in an orderly, inconspicuous manner? In the past, Rotti himself would gather us all into his study for what he called 'the brief evening huddle'; that is, standing around his table and receiving our assignments for repossession. How would our noble line of work continue under this…_woman_, and all that she stands for? It is difficult for me to say. Seventeen years of retirement have left my mind hazy about the details, let alone my complete absence from this Sweet's new base of operations. For all I know, they could be doing team-building exercises or worse, telling stories over herbal tea and ladyfingers. She might even be plotting to teach Yates how to knit or embroider, heaven help us.

_Ah, Rotti, Rotti, why couldn't you have convinced that little girl a bit more subtly? _

My thoughts start to wander off into a side street, and I suppose I'm unable to stop them from straying from the main course of events I'm working out in my mind. The girl in particular, that Shilo Wallace who was supposed to have died seventeen years ago, is the cause of my current thought process. This entire island, no, this entire _continent_, had practically been laid at her feet a little more than four months ago, if not also the whole wide world. It would have easily been hers, this girl who was once said to be infected with her mother's blood disease. She could have had every locked door in her house torn down with one little click of a trigger. She could have had all that imaginary medication burned in a pit with just one more dead body to dispose of. She could have ran freely all over this island, or been chauffeured to anyplace she wished, or even taken a subway train to whatever's left of the mainland United States just by punishing her captor.

Instead, she forgives him without a second thought otherwise, throws Rotti's inheritance back at him, watches them both die, and then vanishes into thin air. What on earth has she gained for herself by having no money, no food, no shelter, and no promise of a stable future to _save her own life_? Has she become some sort of nun in the wilderness, surviving on magical bread and mosquitoes glowing with Zydrate in their veins? Or has some unknown Good Samaritan taken charge of her situation, hiding her away from the rest of the world in some new home that doubles as a prison, albeit one of her own choosing? Only the dead and God Himself could ever know what on earth was going on in that child's head. As for the living people left behind, we can only guess and hope to get it right.

"Mr. Chapman?"

My attention is drawn back into the present as soon as I hear the voice of Anna Yates attracting it. My last student before the eldest Largo, always eager to please. She will have more than enough time to gather my favor once again, if she is still interested in the plan ahead of us all.

"Yes, what is it?" I answer her mildly, pretending to be a bit more interested in the evening coffee than I am in polite conversation.

"May we have a word in private?" she asks me, but not without a telltale flicker within her otherwise dark eyes. Someone has hinted to her already what we're about to do, and so I waste no time in agreeing to this so that the both of us may visit Mr. Van Zandt in the hallway. Here, at least, I will not have to worry about the eldest Largo looking over my shoulder or asking questions riddled with foul words. Here, the three of us are safe.

"Chapman, Yates," Van Zandt says to us by way of greeting. I know that someone has given hints to him as well about my plans, because that someone just happens to be me. It's amazing the privacy one can have when they're fitted with their own sets of holo-wristbands, or so Rotti himself said to me so many years ago. Each of them already knows that I called them there on my own time, and so not even my own household staff could ever listen on my conversations and remember them later to the right sort of law enforcement.

"My students," I answer agreeably, acknowledging them both with a slight nod. "Did you have any trouble arriving here tonight?"

"A few minutes in traffic, but just fine otherwise," Yates answers, tossing some hair back behind her shoulder. "No big."

I turn my attention to Van Zandt, who merely shrugs and folds one hand behind the other, always the cautious one waiting for instructions. Time to give him an instruction to remember.

"Marvelous," I tell them both, bringing them to stand closer together with a few movements of my hands. "Let's talk business…"

My voice drops to a whisper, caution kicking in just in case there are individuals with augmented hearing listening in on our conversation. One can never be too careful in these modern times.

"…Tomorrow, you two are to accompany the eldest Largo on his very first Repossession. He might have a few last-minute questions about this—or statements, or curses, or _whatever_ it is that he plans to do—in which case, I expect you to earn his trust and offer him whatever guidance he requires.

After that night passes, I'll trust you to continue in his good graces, give him directions if he asks for them, advice if he demands it—but _only_ if—and then, in due course, he'll invite the two of you inside the family mansion for a look around."

My voice takes on a tone of authority, and I can see that both of my students are paying me their closest attention.

"Once this occurs, I will need you both to go along with whatever Largo tells you or wishes to share with you, at least until he excuses himself for at least ten minutes. When you know this is happening, when you are _sure_, one of you must then excuse yourselves and find the nearest member of the household staff to ask some general questions about the mansion. 'Just how far of a walk is it to the kitchen,' 'Where do the surviving family members go to unwind,' simple questions such as these to do no more than break the ice and not awaken any suspicion.

That person must then ask if there is a special section of the mansion where the servants go to take care of their personal finances, and if so, whether or not Madam Vecchio, the Largos' housekeeper, is among them. If that servant answers in the affirmative, thank them for their time and then break off the conversation however you see fit, because it will be time to return to the room from whence you came before the eldest Largo returns and starts asking questions himself about where _you've_ gone. However, if they answer in the negative, thank them anyway and also return to your original room, because it won't do to have any guests nudging the hired help any further than is necessary. In either case, report straight back to me after your time in the mansion is over. We'll definitely need time to figure out our next move from there, as well as deciding amongst ourselves who we'll need to complete the next stage of our plan. Now…"

I clear my throat and say just a bit louder, "Is there anything else?" All the better to make the crowd think that this meeting was all Miss Yates' idea, and so take all suspicion directly off of my shoulders. Yates herself responds with a polite smile, ever the surrogate daughter in need of her substitute father's approval.

"No, Mr. Chapman, I think that's everything for tonight."

"_Bellissimo_." I put on a smile of my own before motioning Yates and Van Zandt both away from the corner we have been occupying to get our business done. There are no curious looks from any members of the crowd as we return to our table; no odd look that could suggest we weren't alone in our dealings and someone else has heard everything. Within minutes, we've blended into the ambiance as well as the rest of these guests, the three of us enjoying the evening's meal and also making one donation each from the confines of our pocketbooks. Like the founder that brought our trade and way of life into existence, we are forever the souls of generosity.

It's not until I see an old, familiar face from the news reports that I very nearly lose my composure. Of course. Madam Sarah Shaw, ever the right and loyal GeneCop. Most likely here to gather a pound or two of information from Miss Shilo Wallace. Unfortunately, even though the two other chosen orphans have already been introduced, the third has once again failed to show her sweet young face. Such a pity, because there's only so long this young lady can continue to hide from the rest of the world.

"Mr. Chapman, I presume?"

Even with her line of work, she doesn't forget all of the necessary formalities. Perhaps that may be a blessing in disguise, for I doubt I would even dream of entrusting this particular case to just anyone.

"You presume correctly, indeed…am I needed for an investigation, or do you intend to take my fingerprints?"

I'm careful to mask my voice so that this comes off as a joke rather than an insult, and just as I expected, Shaw takes the bait and answers with a good-natured laugh.

"No cases tonight, sir, I promise. I just wonder if someone as important as you are might decide to ask a girl to dance."

"You've come here alone, I take it…?" I feel a slight stab of pity—or is it sympathy?—as she confirms this fact. Who knows? Perhaps I also can't help but wonder if both our lives would be different if one of us had happened to come along much later, or else the other one a lot earlier in time. Still, such thoughts will do nothing for me or my goals, which I find much more appetizing than mulling over all sorts of what-if scenarios. I should speak my peace to this woman while I'm able, or else I might never ask this favor of her at all.

"As a matter of fact, Miss Shaw, perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone..."

We blend in easily with the handful of guests who've chosen to give back some unspent energy early on. This GeneCop plays the part of the dove well, not just because of her simple white dress and matching feathered mask, but also by the way I receive her full attention with no interruptions. I can only assume she'll appreciate my little joke without laughing too loudly, given that I've decided to take on the mask and jacket of the crow.

"…Has there been no further word on the Repo Man's daughter since the end of the Opera?"

"The Repo Man's daughter?"

"_Yes_. Shilo Wallace herself."

She hesitates, but only for a split second.

"Well…I have heard a few stories…"

"Oh? Such as?"

"Ah…a bald girl racing through the alleys…that was a few months ago, though. A homeless person told me that, and I haven't seen them since that time, either."

"And there have been no more sightings after that?"

"No. I've heard of at least two. Pale girl, dark clothing, travels with at least one other man…"

A small look of realization comes over her, and as the tempo of the music changes, I know something for a fact right away. My dear little Officer has just experienced an epiphany.

"…And all of these reports have been coming from the West."

"_Splendid_."

Without thinking, I begin leading her from a slow dance to a slightly more energetic waltz, as I feel what's left of my spirits have risen just a little after hearing this news.

"Now, if I might dig a little deeper…what do these reports say about the man?"

"Her traveling companion?"

"Of course."

Another moment of hesitation, only this one lasts for almost a minute.

"I'm…I'm not exactly sure of this, but…well, rumor has it that he might be…"

"_Yes_, Miss Shaw?"

"…A _grave_ robber."

I might be in an otherwise relaxed mood, but it doesn't stop me from sliding a finger under her chin to force her to look me straight into the eyes.

"Well, then, Officer…for Miss Wallace's sake, I _do_ hope you'll find her before a much more bloodthirsty individual does. With this killer of grave robbers on the loose, it's safe for me to say her late father would expect nothing but the _highest_ level of protection for his child. It's the least we can all do for this poor girl, after her own family almost poisoned her to death."

She accepts this idea with a slight nod, sealing the future of this search as well as the future of my own plans. In return, as the music draws to a close and we make our parting bows and curtsies, I know without a doubt that she won't fail in this mission I've put into her hands. With the chance of reclaiming Rotti's heir _and_ taking down a few more of the Zydrate-stealing vermin in the process, no other arrangement could satisfy me more.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Shaw. Do try to be as safe as you can out there on the streets, hmm?"

I receive one more nod and a smile for my troubles, and so show no hesitation to smile back in return. The first part of my plan for GeneCo is now underway.

**Parting thoughts:** This part of a side adventure to "Chrysalis: Volume 1" is now complete…but, if you enjoyed what you read here and would like to continue the fun, please subscribe to the master story of Chrysalis and hopefully, I can continue the adventures of our favorite grave robbers, scalpel sluts, and infected little girls over there. See you on the flip side.

-Weasley-


End file.
